


The One who Lingers

by stardropdream



Category: Blood-C, Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: F/M, Implied Relationships, M/M, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-24
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 10:50:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/697464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's sent by his boss to check on her healing, but it's the familiar that draws them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The One who Lingers

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ August 26, 2012.

  
Really, the worlds he really disliked were ones like these – when the second he touches down to earth, he has to avoid getting his head sliced off.   
  
Landing in this world, he is immediately met with a sharp blade against his throat, red eyes (well, one red eye – the other is covered in a laced eye patch) narrow and glaring at him.  
  
“Don’t move,” she hisses – a mysterious woman he’s never met before, but then again, he never knows the circumstances when he first arrives.   
  
He holds up his hands in surrender, smiling cheerfully, hoping to soothe the situation out. But instead of reassuring her, the smile seems to only anger her more. There’s a flash of recognition, of anger in her eyes – the understanding that his smile is the smile of someone hiding.  
  
“Who are you?” she demands, edge of the sword cutting against his throat, almost drawing blood. Her voice is sharp.   
  
“Does it matter?” he asks with a laugh. The blade pressing against his adam’s apple is answer enough. He smiles wider, hands still in the air, fingers spread slightly. “Fuuma.”  
  
She stares at him. Her eyes narrow. “That’s not an answer. A name doesn’t tell me who you are.”  
  
“You’d be surprised,” he says and shrugs one shoulder. “What will you do if I don’t give you the answers that you want?”   
  
She doesn’t answer. He hadn’t expected her to, really. He keeps smiling, but this seems only to irritate her more. Finally, though, she says, her voices a soft snap, “Stop smiling.”   
  
“How familiar,” he says to himself, but doesn’t stop, ignoring her command. She narrows her eyes at him further, glowing red in the near darkness.  
  
“Well? What’s your name?” he asks.  
  
“Who’s asking?” she snaps back.  
  
“Fuuma is,” he says with a shrug. “I told you mine. Seems only fair.”  
  
She doesn’t seem to hold the same philosophy, pressing with her sword when he becomes too comfortable. She studies his face.  
  
Then, slowly, she speaks, weighing her options. “Saya.”  
  
She’s studying his face intently, searching for that spark of recognition. And she gets it – Fuuma’s eyes flicker for a brief moment as he hears the name. She scowls, pressing further with the blade.  
  
“Who sent you?” she growls out. Her face twists in anger as he remains silent. “Who sent you!”  
  
“You wouldn’t know him by name,” he says pleasantly.   
  
“Fumito?” she hisses out, eyes flaring with anger.  
  
“Who?” he asks, but doesn’t really care. He swallows back a sigh, feels the blade against his throat. “Really, is this necessary? I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
“So you say,” she hisses. “Be quiet, _human_. Anyone with a smile like that is—”  
  
Whatever she thought of him, he wasn’t about to wait to hear, because he leans back, leg kicking out and catching her in the stomach. She buckles over, then with a loud exclamation of rage, slashes her sword through the air. Fuuma only just manages to dodge. From his boot, he pulls out a short knife, attempting to deflect the blade, even a little – enough to protect himself, and then she slices through it easily, the blade flying off to the ground.  
  
“Oh,” he says, half-surprise and almost half-delight. He manages to dodge away from another sweep of the blade. “The shop owner sent me,” he says, pleasantly dodging her attacks, “to make sure you were healing.”  
  
She doesn’t respond, intent instead on catching him. He isn’t too keen on being caught, though. It becomes a game of cat and mouse – something he is well familiar with. And enjoys. What he’s always lacked in magic and skill he’s made up in avoidance – he’s never met anyone better at keeping silent and out of sight. He smiles, thrilled, but also because he knows it fuels her on. He watches her grit her teeth, scowl, eye burning brightly. The way she arches, glides, darts closer – it’s something familiar.   
  
But all games come to an end, and her high-kick catches him in the throat, sends him sprawling against the ground, unable to breathe. And she’s there in a flash, sword poised to deal the last blow.  
  
But it doesn’t arrive.  
  
He tilts his head o the side, curious. “Well?” he asks, strangely relaxed despite facing down his possible death – but then again, he likes to think his boss wouldn’t send him here if it meant he’d be killed. Unless he really did upset his boss this time with whatever. Still doesn’t seem like him. Perhaps he’d become too used to danger. “Why the hesitation, Saya-san?”   
  
She freezes up and then glares. “I can’t.”   
  
“How sentimental,” he says with a laugh.   
  
Her knuckles turn white with her grip on the hilt. It’s clear she wants nothing more than to kill him. “I _can’t_. I’m physically unable to kill a human.”  
  
He raises an eyebrow. “Strange information to just give away to a complete stranger.”  
  
She gives him a sharp look. “I don’t want you thinking it’s some kind of misplaced _sympathy_ that I spare you.” She turns away from him. “If you weren’t sent by Fumito, you’re no use to me.”  
  
Bemused, he watches her start to walk away, knowing it was a nice stroke of luck that he wasn’t killed immediately.  
  
So he gets up and follows her.  
  
She freeze and glares at him. “What?”  
  
He shrugs, unable to fully put it to words. She’s familiar – similar. Deadly and angry – but such sad eyes, underneath it all. Not haunted, not pained, necessarily. But solemn, yes.  
  
“This Fumito,” he says, pleasantly. “You’re looking for him?”  
  
“I’ll make him pay for what he’s done,” she says, voice flat.   
  
“Ah, of course. And if you can’t?”  
  
She gives him a sharp look.  
  
He just smiles. “It’s a question that you should have an answer to, I think.” She scoffs, angry, and he just laughs. “It’s true.”  
  
“I’ll make sure it happens,” She says, voice cold. She resumes walking, not looking his way. Her grip tightens on her sword. “I _will_ make him pay.”  
  
“Oh, of course,” he says, not mocking but certainly not in perfect agreement. She glares at him. He just smiles – always smiling. The smile remains, partly, to see how she’ll react. He longs for that familiar, despite himself. There’s comfort in the hatred he sees in her eyes.  
  
“Don’t smile like that,” she hisses out, almost sounds desperate – for one brief moment.   
  
“Why?”  
  
“It’s like him.” And for a moment, there is a flicker of truth in emotion. But it’s gone in a flash, like it was never there at all.  
  
“Is that so?” he asks, rhetorically.  
  
She doesn’t answer. He didn’t expect her to.


End file.
